‘You like a good cup of coffee, Les?’ asked Ricco.
‘Yeah. I don’t mind one at all,’ replied Norton.
‘Wait till you taste this.’
Les watched, fascinated, as Ricco started fussing around with the espresso coffee machine. It hissed and steamed and gurgled; a few minutes later Norton had a cup of coffee sitting on the black tiles of the cooking island next to some cream and sugar. Ricco’s burgers were pretty good, but his coffee would have taken gold at the Olympic Games. It was sensational; thick with a creamy brown head, as good as anything you get around Haymarket in Sydney. This time Les was one hundred per cent genuine when he commended him.
‘Jesus, that is a bloody good cup of coffee, Ricco. I wish I could make it as good as that.’
Laverne, who’d been a bit quiet, suddenly piped up. ‘You gotta be a made man to make coffee as good as that,’ she giggled, obviously a bit piddly from her now fifth glass of wine. Les gave a kind of mystified half smile, Ricco didn’t seem to see the funny side of it at all and Laverne appeared to look a bit sheepish. A kind of brittle silence hung in the air for a moment and Les thought it might be a good time to switch subjects.
‘Ricco,’ he said, taking a sip of coffee, ‘can you offer me a bit of advice?’
‘Sure. What’s your problem?’
‘I’m going to rent a car tomorrow. Where do you reckon’s the best place to go?’
Ricco put his cup back on the saucer. ‘You want a car? What sort of car? You want a big car? A small car? What kind of car?’
Norton shrugged. ‘I dunno. Just a Ford or a Chevvy. Something to get me round for the next couple of weeks.’
‘What are you doing tomorrow morning round eleven?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’ll call round, pick you up. I got a buddy out on Greenwood. We’ll get you a car.’
‘You will…?’
‘Hey, I said I’d get you a car. You got a car.’
‘Shit! Thanks.’
Ricco seemed to sum Les up again then for the first time a noticeable smile seemed to flicker round his eyes. ‘Hey, I like you, Les Norton. You’re an alright guy. You got style. You got class. What are you doing this Thursday?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Les again. ‘I got nothing planned.’
‘You want to go boating? I got a boat. I’ll show you round the Keys.’
‘That sounds alright. Okay, you got me.’ Les took a thoughtful sip of coffee. ‘Listen, Ricco, you don’t have to go to all this trouble for me — even though I appreciate it. The condo, a nice meal, helping me out. I mean, after spending four days with Captain Rats it’s all a bit too much.’
‘Hey don’t sweat it, Les. Like I said, you’re a good fella.’
Les seemed to think for a moment. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘There’s probably worse blokes round than me.’
They chatted away, over nothing much in particular, while they finished a second cup of coffee; most of the time, though, Norton once again couldn’t believe his luck. Ricco was going to help him get a car then take him for a boat ride out on the Keys, which sounded tops. Ricco might have been a bit terse or abrupt at times, but he wasn’t short on hospitality; a marked contrast to Hank. Finally Ricco said he had things to do early tomorrow morning and he’d like to get going if Les wanted a lift back to the condo. This suited Norton admirably. During the drive home he once again couldn’t thank them both enough for their generosity and friendliness.
‘Okay Les,’ said Ricco, as Norton got out of the car at the condo. ‘I’ll see you here tomorrow morning. Eleven sharp.’
‘Alright, Ricco. I’ll see you then.’
‘Goodnight, Les.’
‘See you later, Laverne.’
The rain had eased and a few stars were appearing from behind the clouds, but it was still oppressively hot. Whether it was the humidity, or the food or what, Norton didn’t know, but as he opened the front door of the condo he found himself yawning. Inside it was fairly warm too, but clean and fresh, unlike the stuffy mustiness at Swamp Manor, so he once again didn’t bother about the air- conditioning. After a glass of orange juice Les got stripped down to his jocks and lay back on the bed with a table lamp on and the book about Jamaica sitting on his chest. Before he opened it Norton had a think about something Laverne had said when he commented on how good Ricco’s coffee was. ‘It took a “made man” to make it that good.’ And while Les had acted oblivious, he noticed Ricco’s stony reaction to his girlfriend’s bit of a private joke. If Ricco was a ‘made man’ he’d taken the oath of omerta and was a member of some New York Mafia family. That’s what he was being guarded about. Ricco definitely had strong Mafia connections and who knew how high up he was? Though not to worry. He seemed to like Norton and you couldn’t ask for better than to have someone like that on-side while you were stopping for a while in America. Then Les had to chuckle to himself. The more he thought about it, the more Warren was right. It was all getting to be like some scene out of a movie or on TV. That house with the pastel colours could’ve been from an episode of ‘Miami Vice’. Ricco was straight out of The Godfather. And their love affair had lashings of West Side Story or could have been scripted by Neil Simon. What did some English singer say about America? You watch TV and think how totally unreal it is. Then you step outside and find it’s just the same. Oh well, I’m here now and that’s it.
Les started to read the book on Jamaica, flicking straight to the photo of Rose Hill Great House at Montego Bay. It was like some old Georgian mansion or a French chateau set on lush green lawns with trees in the background. A long, wide set of sandstone steps flanked with wrought iron bannisters led up to a huge courtyard propped up by about a dozen sandstone pillars and arches. There were two more storeys of white stuccoed sandstone built above and back from the courtyard. Judging by the number of gabled windows that were bigger than doors Les estimated there would have to be about thirty or more rooms. A grey tiled roof sat on top and there were more massive windows set in sandstone walls down the sides. The courtyard was surrounded by a wall of chest-high marble columns, the huge front door had two equally huge marble columns set on either side with a marble arch and shelter set above. Yes, mused Les, I’d sure say old Moulton Norton wasn’t short of a dollar back then. Of course labour wasn’t very cost intensive back in those day. Instead of sick pay, holiday pay and a 17.5% loading, you got a good whipping instead. He was reading about a mob of slaves who escaped and were called Maroons, which came from the Spanish word cimarron, and meant wild, and their leader Cudjoe, who with his two sub-chiefs Quao and Cuffee caused the British no end of trouble back around 1670, when Norton’s eyes started to close. He switched off the table lamp and drifted into a sweaty, but pleasant sleep.
By the time Les got out of bed the next morning then got cleaned up, made a cup of coffee, pedalled up to the store for more orange juice, had a long swim followed by a late breakfast, then sat around picking his toes while he thought about a few things and got into a pair of shorts and a clean white T-shirt, Ricco was knocking on the door. Ricco looked as neat and dapper as ever in a pair of white trousers, tan loafers and a maroon shirt hanging out.
‘You ready to roll?’ he said shortly, not bothering to come inside.
‘Yeah, mate,’ answered Norton. ‘I’ll just grab me licence and some chops.’
Les got his wallet and locked up the flat. Next thing they were safe from the blistering heat inside Ricco’s air- conditioned Mercedes and had turned left outside the estate towards downtown.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Norton.
‘About a half-dozen blocks from here to my buddy Vinnie’s place. You’ll like Vinnie. He’s an alright guy.’
‘Is he from New York too?’ asked Les, knowing he needn’t have bothered.
‘Yeah. We grew up on the same block.’
And went to the same reform school too? I wonder what Vinnie’s other name is? Vinnie the Fish? Vinnie the Ox? Vinnie Three Fingers?
Les
was pondering on this and what scene in which TV show or movie he’d be playing today when two bumper stickers on a big grey pick-up truck caught his eye. There was a Confederate flag on the window and it was driven by a good ol’ boy in a black, ten-gallon hat. One sticker said, ‘God, Guns and Guts Made America. Let’s Keep All Three’. The other said, ‘Will the Last American to Leave Miami Please Bring the Flag?’. Yes, thought Norton. Today’s scene is either Smokey and the Bandit or ‘The Dukes of Hazzard’. Norton was thinking on this when they pulled into some sort of caryard.
There were around forty cars sitting there, all big American gas guzzlers with prices on the windscreens and bunting and advertising much like any place you’d see along Parramatta Road. A single-storey brick office with tinted windows sat out the front among about a dozen palm trees. From the roof a number of American flags fluttered slightly in the hot wind and above the flags was a sign in red and white: BIG V. CARS AND RENTALS. A monstrous, dark green Cadillac sat out the front of the office and leaning against it, smoking a cigar as big as a tin of tennis balls, was a tall, barrel-chested man with a paunch and short black hair receding in the front. He was wearing a blue shirt, open almost to the waist, matching blue trousers and shiny black shoes.
‘Hey, Vinnie,’ said Ricco, as they got out of the Mercedes. ‘How are you doin’?’
‘Hey, Ricco,’ smiled Vinnie. ‘What do you say, buddy?’
‘Vinnie, I want you to meet Les. Les, this is Vinnie.’
‘G’day Vinnie,’ said Norton, offering his hand. ‘How are you, mate?’
‘Hey Les. Nice to meet you.’ Vinnie’s massive paw wrapped around Norton’s and gave it a vigorous crunching. ‘So you’re the aussie guy wants a car?’
‘Yeah. Ricco said you might be able to help me.’
Vinnie turned to Ricco and made an open-handed gesture. ‘Might be able to help him. What is this, huh? Come out back, Les. I got just the car you need. I got you a T-bird. Straight off the lot.’
‘A T-bird? That sounds alright.’ Norton was curious. He was also dubious. Straight off the lot probably also meant straight off the street — in some other city.
‘You wanted a car,’ shrugged Ricco. ‘I got you a car.’
The car was an iridescent grey Ford Thunderbird with rounded fenders and bonnet that made it look more like a Mercedes. It was only two doors with four pillared windows, but it was bigger, shinier, and newer than anything Les had ever driven. Vinnie opened the door and Les got inside. As he sat down an alarm started, which Vinnie explained was for the seat-belt that somehow or other seemed to automatically slide up and down above the driver’s side window; Les clamped it on and the alarm stopped. The interior was all plush grey velvet you sunk into, with power steering, power doors, power brakes and power every bloody thing else plus a scanner radio cassette stereo with four speakers in the doors. The only thing wrong was that the steering wheel was on the wrong side and the rear vision mirror faced the wrong way.
‘So what do you say, huh?’ said Vinnie.
‘Yeah. It’s a beauty,’ answered Les. ‘She’ll do me. What’s the damage?’
‘Come inside out of the heat and we’ll do the paperwork.’
Vinnie’s office was nicely air-conditioned and fairly plush. There were indoor palms, paintings and mirrors on the walls, some bamboo furniture, and lounges with green and white bamboo patterned wallpaper all round. A shiny wooden counter sat in the front and behind that stood a door with PRIVATE on it.
‘You want a soda?’ asked Vinnie, as he disappeared behind the door in a cloud of blue cigar smoke.
‘Yeah righto, thanks,’ replied Les.
Vinnie returned with an O’Doulls for Ricco, a 7-UP for Les and a Lemon Crush for himself along with the paperwork.
‘You’ll like the T-bird,’ said Ricco. ‘They’re a good car.’
‘Yeah. It looks alright,’ nodded Les, taking a sip of 7-UP.
Vinnie’s chunky fingers soon had the paperwork filled in, explaining to Les about insurance, AAA, Auto Club and one or two other things. He checked Norton’s passport and driver’s licence, along with his VISA card. All up it took about ten minutes and came to $210 for a week including the insurance, with an option for another week or more if Les wanted. Les signed on the dotted line quite happily.
‘There you go,’ said Vinnie, handing him the keys. ‘It’s all yours. Bring it back here when you’re finished. Or I’ll get someone to pick it up.’
‘Unreal, Vinnie. Thanks a lot. You too, Ricco.’
‘Hey. Any time,’ shrugged Ricco.
‘There… is one other thing you could do for me, Ricco,’ said Les, a little slowly.
‘Sure, what’s that?’
‘Well, I’ve never driven a car on the wrong side of the road before. How about coming round the block with me a few times while I sort things out? You mind?’
Ricco shrugged and half smiled. ‘Sure, why not? I’m a thrillseeker. Then you can drop me back here. Hey, Vinnie, if you hear a bang from up the road somewhere, don’t sweat it. That’ll be me teaching Grandma Duck here how to drive in the big city.’
‘Hey, if I hear a bang coming from you, Snake,’ answered Vinnie, pointing his chunky index finger at Ricco then curling it, ‘it don’t necessarily mean it’s coming from no car wreck!’
Vinnie and Ricco laughed at some private joke then they followed Les out to the T-bird. Les got behind the wheel, stuck the key in the ignition and the big car hummed into life quieter than a Swiss watch. Ricco got in beside him, Vinnie gave the roof a tap then disappeared back into his office in another cloud of cigar smoke. Les slipped the T-bar into drive, eased the car cautiously to the edge of the busy road and waited for a break in the traffic.
‘Hey, Ricco,’ he said. ‘What did Vinnie mean when he called you Snake?’
Ricco gave a cold laugh. ‘That was just a name they had for me back in New York. Ricco the Snake.’
‘Oh. And what about Vinnie? They have one for him?’
‘Yeah. They called him Vinnie-Sawn-Off.’
Vinnie was around five ten, and at least fifteen stone. Definitely no midget. ‘I think I get the picture,’ said Les, and slowly turned along the roadway.
It wasn’t as bad as Norton thought it would be. He made a few turns at the lights, both left and right, zipped in among the traffic, even overtook a few cars; the roads were that wide you seemed to have all the time in the world to avoid any trouble. The only real blue was a couple of times when Les went for the blinkers and got a windscreen full of water and the wipers going instead. As well as the steering wheel being on the wrong side of the car, the indicators and that were on the wrong side of the steering wheel. But it didn’t take Les long to get his act together, and the big car went like a charm and kicked back into second nicely when you tromped on it; Norton was actually looking forward to dropping Ricco off so he could start fish-tailing it and lay a bit of rubber up and down these monstrous great roads.
‘So how you doin’ there, Grandma Duck?’ asked Ricco. ‘Think you can handle it without wetting your pants too much?’
‘Ohh yeah,’ grinned Les. ‘By the time I’m due to fly home I should be alright.’
‘You know where you are?’
‘Yeah.’ Norton had a quick look in the rear vision mirror and around him. ‘Vinnie’s is back that way about two miles. The condo’s over there. And we’re heading towards Main Street.’
‘Hey, you’re doin’ just fine.’
‘I stayed up till three o’clock in the morning studying a road map.’
Ricco looked at Les as if he didn’t know whether to believe him or not. The way Les had his mouth set suggested he shouldn’t.
With his arm out the window catching the breeze, Norton nonchalantly drove on for another couple of miles or so towards what he thought must be downtown. There were more shops and apartment blocks; there was even the odd feral pedestrian walking around. Shit, what are they doing on the loose? thought Les. Do the authorities or the Na
tional Rifle Association know they’re around? That’s the fourth one I’ve seen. They’re almost in plague proportions. Anyway, I suppose I’d better get Ricco back to Vinnie’s. He looks happy enough, but I don’t think he’s all that interested in a guided tour of beautiful downtown Sepposota.
Norton pulled up for a set of lights with about half a dozen cars behind him and the median strip on his left; Ricco was gazing absently out his window at the car alongside him. Les noticed a tall, skinny, black man in jeans and a white, hang-out shirt standing near the lights on the median strip. He had a black baseball cap with a white X on it jammed on his head above a pair of mirrored sunglasses and seemed to be gazing around waiting to cross the road. Norton was almost about to give him a nod and wave him across when the black man lurched off the median strip, pulled a pistol out from under his shirt and stuck it in Norton’s face.
‘Get out of the car, you white motherfucker!’ he screamed. ‘Or I’ll blow your goddamn head clean off!’
Norton gave the black man an incredulous double blink and shook his head. ‘What?’
‘I said give me the fuckin’ car, you honky sonofabitch, or you’re a fuckin’ dead man!’
Norton was too stunned to be scared or shocked, even with the barrel of the gun about two inches from his face. From the corner of his eye he saw Ricco move and heard him speak.
‘Hey, spade, you want the car? Then suck on this, you black nigger fuck!’
That was when Les figured out why they nicknamed Ricco Snake. In about a second flat he had whipped a small revolver out from under his shirt, reached across Les, stuck the barrel in the black man’s left eye and pulled the trigger three times. It didn’t sound all that loud, just an incredibly rapid ‘bangbangbang’, but enough to make Norton’s ears ring slightly. A strong smell of cordite hung in the car, the black man’s eye pulped and began to ooze down his cheek and his other eye flickered momentarily then rolled back in his head, lifeless. He dropped his gun in Norton’s lap, staggered back onto the median strip then collapsed on his back as if someone had kicked his legs from under him; blood started to burble out of his eye socket, one arm flopped across his chest, and that was it. The lights changed to green so Norton decided to drive off. Not too fast, not too slow, a bit like Grandma Duck, if anything. Just another day in America.
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